Chapter 3 - Lucy
I stand in the doorway long after Riley's truck disappears around the bend, the night air cool against my face. Something about him lingers—not just his woodsy scent that somehow made it into the cottage with him, but a presence. Like the air is different where he stood.
With a sigh, I close the door and lock it, testing the handle twice. It's not that I don't believe him about Cedar Falls being safe; it's just habit. Growing up in Phoenix taught me caution.
I turn to face my new home, really taking it in now that I'm alone.
The living room is small but cozy, with worn hardwood floors and a stone fireplace that dominates one wall.
The furniture is clearly secondhand but clean—a blue sofa with a crocheted throw, a rocking chair by the window, a coffee table with water rings marking its surface.
It feels lived-in. Like someone else's life that I'm borrowing.
My footsteps echo as I wander from room to room. The kitchen cabinets are stocked with mismatched plates and cups. The bathroom has a clawfoot tub with a shower attachment. Upstairs, the main bedroom has a double bed with a handmade quilt and windows that face east—I'll get morning light.
The second bedroom—or office, according to Riley—is empty except for a desk and chair. Perfect for writing, I think, running my fingers along the desk's edge.
Not that I've written anything in months. Not since Dad died.
I set my overnight bag on the bed and begin unpacking the essentials—toiletries, pajamas, a change of clothes for tomorrow. It feels strange to have so little with me when the rest of my life sits in boxes inside my broken-down car at a stranger's auto shop.
A stranger with amber eyes and careful hands. A stranger who found me a key when he could have just directed me to a motel.
I need to stop. He's just doing his job.
But it felt like more than that. The way he checked the house and explained everything. The gruff concern when he told me to lock up.
I shake my head, annoyed with myself. I've been in town for less than three hours and I'm already weaving fantasies about the first man I meet? Pathetic. Besides, a guy like that—with his chiseled jawline and those forearms—probably has women lining up around the block.
Not that I'd be his type anyway. Men like Riley go for sleek, confident women. Not soft, uncertain ones with too many curves and too much baggage.
Unpacked, I head back downstairs to investigate the kitchen. The refrigerator is empty except for a box of baking soda. The pantry holds a few staples—salt, pepper, flour, sugar. Mrs. Abernathy has at least provided the basics.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since a sad gas station sandwich at noon. But I have no car, no food, and no idea if anywhere delivers to this address.
As if in answer to my thoughts, I notice a piece of paper on the counter that I missed earlier.
It's a welcome note from Mrs. Abernathy, letting me know she's stocked coffee and tea in the cupboard and that my nearest food options are Madeline’s Diner (open 24/7) and Gino's Pizza (delivers until 10 PM).
I almost laugh at this small kindness. Maybe small towns do have their advantages. I call in an order for a small pizza, giving my address and adding,
"I just moved in today, so I might need to guide your delivery person."
"You're at Edith's rental?" asks the woman on the phone. "Blue cottage?"
"Yes," I say, surprised.
"No problem, honey. My son's delivering tonight, and he knows exactly where you are. Twenty minutes."
She hangs up before I can respond, leaving me staring at my phone. I guess Riley wasn't exaggerating about everyone knowing everyone here.
While I wait for my food, I continue exploring.
The living room bookshelf holds an eclectic mix—gardening guides, murder mysteries, a few romance novels with cracked spines.
I run my fingers along them, wondering about the previous tenants.
Did they find what they were looking for in Cedar Falls? Did they leave by choice?
The delivery arrives in exactly twenty minutes—a teenage boy with a friendly smile who refuses to take my money.
"Mrs. Abernathy said you might call and already covered it," he explains. "Welcome to Cedar Falls!"
I'm so taken aback that I just thank him and close the door. Standing in my kitchen with a free pizza, courtesy of a woman I haven't even met yet, I feel a strange mix of emotions. Gratitude, certainly. But also a wariness born from experience—kindness often comes with expectations attached.
What will Mrs. Abernathy expect from me? What will this town expect?
I eat at the small kitchen table, flipping through a local information packet I found in a drawer.
Cedar Falls was founded in 1873 as a logging community.
The waterfall it's named for is three miles north.
The annual Founder's Day Festival—apparently what they're celebrating this weekend—features a parade, baking contests, historical reenactments, and a dance.
It all sounds almost unbearably quaint. The kind of thing I would have mocked in my previous life.
But my previous life led me here, didn't it? To this quiet cottage in this tiny town where strangers buy you pizza and grumpy mechanics help you find spare keys.
After eating, I wash up and get ready for bed. The cottage creaks and settles around me, unfamiliar sounds that make me jumpy at first. But the bed is surprisingly comfortable, and exhaustion from the drive and the stress of breaking down quickly pulls me under.
My last conscious thought is of Riley—the way his presence seemed to fill the cottage, how his voice rumbled low when he explained about the furnace. How his eyes never quite met mine for more than a second at a time.
I wonder what his story is. And whether I'll ever get to hear it.
Next Day
I wake to sunlight streaming through the east-facing windows and the disorienting feeling of not knowing where I am. Then it comes back—Cedar Falls, the cottage, my broken-down car.
Riley.
I check my phone: 7:23 AM. If I hurry, I can shower, dress, and walk to his shop by opening time—an easy stroll on a beautiful morning.
The shower takes some figuring out—the clawfoot tub's fixtures are ancient—but the water pressure is surprisingly good. I wash quickly, then stand before the small closet section of my overnight bag, suddenly conscious of what to wear.
This is ridiculous. I'm just going to check on my car, not attend a job interview.
But still, I find myself bypassing my comfortable travel clothes in favor of my nicest jeans (the ones that actually make my hips look proportionate to my waist) and a soft green sweater that brings out the hints of gold in my brown eyes.
I blow dry my hair, apply a touch of mascara and tinted lip balm, then stare at my reflection. Who am I trying to impress? The mechanic has probably already forgotten what I look like.
But I know the answer. I've always been this way—seeking approval, wanting to be liked. It's exhausting, this constant need to present my best self, especially when my "best self" still feels inadequate most of the time.
With a sigh, I grab my purse and head out, locking the cottage behind me. The morning is crisp and clear, with that special quality of light that only seems to exist in early autumn. The street is quiet except for the occasional car passing. People heading to work, I suppose.
Cedar Falls looks different in daylight. What seemed quaint and movie-set perfect last night now reveals its imperfections—peeling paint on some storefronts, a boarded-up building that might once have been a hardware store, faded awnings. But somehow, these flaws make it more real, more appealing.
I pass the diner Riley mentioned—Lou's, according to the sign—and make a mental note to stop in later about possibly borrowing a car. Through the windows, I can see it's busy, booths filled with people talking over coffee and plates piled with breakfast.
The walk to Carter's Auto Shop takes me about twenty minutes at a leisurely pace. By the time I arrive, it's 8:15, and the shop is clearly open. There are two cars in the lot besides my own Corolla, which I can see through the open bay doors, hood up.
I hesitate at the entrance to the office, suddenly nervous. What if Riley's diagnosis is worse than he thought? What if the repairs cost more than my emergency fund can handle? What if—
The door swings open, and a slender man with gray-streaked hair steps out, nearly colliding with me.
"Oh! Sorry," he says, steadying himself. "Didn't see you there."
"My fault," I say quickly. "I was just standing here like a statue."
He smiles, "You must be Lucy. The girl whose car broke down yesterday."
I blink in surprise. "Yes, that's me. How did you—"
"Small town," he says. "I'm Lou, by the way. From the diner. Riley mentioned you might need to borrow some wheels while yours is being fixed. Come meet me at the dinner. I might be able to help you."
"He did?" I'm oddly touched that Riley remembered our conversation, “Thank you!”
"Said you were new in town, staying at Edith's place." Lou nods toward the shop. "He's inside, looking at your alternator. Or what's left of it."
That doesn't sound promising. "Thanks," I say again. "I guess I should go in and face the music."
Lou pats my arm. "Don't let his grumpiness fool you. Riley's a softie under all that scowling."
Before I can respond to this surprising assessment, he's off, walking briskly toward town. I take a deep breath and push open the office door.
The space is small but tidy—a counter with a register, a few chairs along one wall, automotive magazines stacked on a small table. The walls are covered with framed certificates and what look like military commendations. A door in the back presumably leads to the garage.
There's no one at the counter, but I can hear the sounds of tools and faint music coming from the garage. I approach the connecting door, peering through its window.
Riley is bent over the engine of my car, his back to me. He's wearing a dark gray t-shirt today, and I can't help noticing how it stretches across his broad shoulders as he works. His movements are precise, focused, like he's speaking some private language with the machine.
I knock lightly on the door frame, not wanting to startle him. He turns, and for a moment, I think I see something like pleasure flicker across his face. But it's quickly replaced by his usual stoic expression.
"Morning," he says, straightening. There's a smudge of grease on his forearm that I have the absurd urge to wipe away.
"Good morning," I reply, hoping my voice sounds normal and not breathless. "I thought I'd come check on the patient."
Riley gestures me into the garage. "Terminal, I'm afraid. Alternator's completely shot, and it took out part of the electrical system with it."
My heart sinks. "That sounds expensive."
"Could be worse." He wipes his hands on a rag. "Parts will run about $650, plus labor. But your timing belt's also showing wear. If we're going to have everything apart anyway, might be smart to replace that too. Otherwise you'll be back here in a few months with an even bigger problem."
I do some quick mental calculations. With the timing belt, we're probably looking at close to a thousand dollars. A significant chunk of my "starting over" fund.
Riley seems to read my thoughts. "I can give you a break on the labor," he says, his voice gruff. "Since you're new in town."
I look up, surprised by the offer. "You don't have to do that."
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. "Up to you. But the parts have to come from Oakridge. Won't be here until Thursday at the earliest."
"I met Lou on my way in," I say. "He told me he might be able to help me with a car."
Riley nods. "His nephew is a doctor and got an old Subaru he's not using because he bought a new car. He said you could use it for a couple of weeks if you need to, just pay for gas."
"That's incredibly generous," I say, genuinely touched by the offer from a complete stranger.
"Like I said, town's good about helping newcomers." Riley turns back to my car, adjusting something I can't identify. "You can pick it up after lunch. I told him I'd let you know."
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it for more than just passing along the message. "For everything."
He glances at me, and I'm struck again by those amber eyes, how they seem to see more than I want them to.
"Just doing my job," he says, but there's something in his tone that suggests otherwise.
A silence falls between us, not entirely uncomfortable. I'm aware of how I must look to him—this overdressed woman in a clean sweater and carefully applied makeup, standing awkwardly in his workspace.
"Well, I should let you work," I say finally. "Is it okay if I leave my things in the car for now? Until I figure out how to get them to the cottage?"
"It's secure here," he assures me. "And I can help you move them later if you want."
The offer is delivered so casually, like it costs him nothing. Maybe it doesn't. But to me, a stranger in a strange town, it means everything.
"That would be amazing," I say, trying not to sound too eager. "Thank you."
He nods again, already turning back to the engine. Our conversation is clearly over.
I head back through the office, pausing at the door. Through the window to the garage, I can see Riley working, completely absorbed in his task. There's something compelling about his focus, his competence.
I know he's just being nice because I'm new and stranded.
I must not read anything into it. But as I step outside into the bright morning sunshine, I can't help the small flutter of warmth in my chest. For the first time since arriving in Cedar Falls—maybe for the first time in months—I don't feel quite so alone.